


Acts of Treason

by Reneehart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brief Description of Torture, Escape, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, blink and youll miss it, change of heart, death eater learns to love, though not of the main pair, unedited we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: Hermione did not manage to escape that night the Death Eaters came, tossed at Voldemort's feet and held captive for weeks that bled together in an endless torment.That is, until an act of treason sets her free.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	Acts of Treason

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning up my documents and found this from a prompt on Tumblr. It was my first attempt at Thormione, and I enjoyed doing something a bit different. The prompt was "I did not ask to be kidnapped", requested by Kyoki.

The cellar smelled as all cellars do. Damp, the air moist and heavy with mildew. But the scent- foul as it was- was overwhelmed by an even fouler stench. The putrid scent of human waste, the metallic tang of blood invading the senses. It made Thorfinn grimace, lips curling in disgust.

He descended the steps regardless, carrying his weight on his toes to make as little noise as possible, a hand sliding down the wall and acting as a guide as he sank into the dark nothingness. The stones were cold, wet, and the rough texture dug into his palms but he ignored the sensation, eyes adjusting as they sought through the shadows.

He found her quickly.

The moon fell in slivers between the bars of the window, illuminating the tiny cell in a pale silver glow. 

She was curled in a corner, turned in such a manner that her back was to him, her forehead pressed where the two walls met. The red dress she wore was a stark beacon in the basement turned prison, a burst of color in the grays and shadows encompassing her. Even in its tattered state- torn at the color and ripped seams, stained with filth- it blossomed in the darkness. 

He startled with the realization that he had been staring, paused mid-step on the stairs. When he lowered himself down, the final step creaked, the groan splicing through the silence like a cry in the night.

She moved quickly, reflexes honed from the few weeks she had spent in the manor. She remained tucked in the corner, but she had flipped so the walls hugged her shoulders, staring at him. Hazel eyes wide and reflecting what little, fractured light peaked through. 

He swallowed roughly.

“Hello.”

The word was tentative, cautionary. Soft in a way that surprised her, the hard glint in her eyes blinked away.

He approached the cell, coming to stand before the iron bars. He had been to a circus once, as a child. Had been struck with awe and amazement for the fantastic beasts that danced around the witch who beckoned them, dressed in a glittering, color-shifting unitard. It was the first time he had truly discovered magic, despite having been raised in it. Born in it.

He had been so fascinated by the performance, that he sunk to his hands and knees after the show to sneak into the tent that he had been ushered out of, hoping to steal a few more precious minutes of that magic. 

The crew had worked fast, the animals small and wilted from within crates and cages. The flame-colored feathers of the phoenix duller somehow, the unicorn’s silver coat less brilliant. 

It was part of the act, his mother said. No one would enjoy the show if the animals weren’t controlled. They were too dangerous.

“Does he want me?” Hermione asked, causing his reverie to come to an abrupt halt.

Her voice was hoarse, her throat no doubt raw. Bellatrix had spent the evening with her.

  


He had heard the screams from the courtyard.

  


“No,” he answered, the he in question unspoken but well understood.

  


The Dark Lord had been delighted when Thorfinn and Dolohov had arrived that night, the unconscious girl slumped between them, wild curls hanging across her face like a veil. She was not as good as Potter, but it presented a new opportunity to explore.

  


He never spoke of the connection he bore to Potter, though they had all seen it. Had seen the very real link materialized before them in the graveyard, when his rebirth was fresh and the future an ambiguous, nebulous thing. The smell of war that mingled with soil and magic and the strange potion that the Dark Lord has risen from.

  


He attempted to reach Potter through that same link, the same way he had lured Potter to the ministry. Had made Potter witness as he tortured the young witch relentlessly until her resolve broke and she cried out and thrashed on the marble floor.

  


And then he would laugh.

  


‘ _Oh, he’s mad now!’_ he would say, voice cold and pitched as he mocked the Boy Who Lived.

  


Thorfinn swallowed once more, suddenly unsure of himself, questioning and doubting the poorly contrived plan he had spent the better part of the evening building. He had never been the most thoughtful man he knew, a weakness that had little baring on his life until now.

  


Until it mattered.

  


“Do _you_ want me?” she asked then.

  


He shook his head quickly, knowing that Fenrir had taken to some unsavory ways of occupying himself when tasked with guard duties.

  


Her relief was palpable, shoulders slumping, jaw unclenching. It made his chest ache in a way he didn’t fully understand. He was not hurt or ill, but it ached all the same.

  


“You know you can end this,” he said, licking his lips. “If you just tell the Dark Lord what he’s doing or where he is, he’ll go easy on you. Might even let you go. Otherwise, you’re just asking for all of this. He won’t stop.”

  


The hardness returned to her eyes, voice laden with malice as she hissed, “I didn’t ask to be kidnapped. Or tortured. But I’ll do it any way if it means you all rot. My body will be cold and stiff before I ever betray Harry.”

  


“Potter could evade him! He’s done it before. You can’t evade death, not when _He_ decides you’re not useful to him anymore!” he hissed back, surprised by his passion as he leaned forward, fingers curling around the bars. She was remarkably stubborn, every stereotype he had never mocked Gryffindors for rolled into one witch with unruly hair and fiery eyes.

How long would it take before she too wilted and shrunk within her cage?

  


Or would she die before then, her spirit stronger than her body?

  


He pulled back, running a hand through his hair and pacing outside her cell. He didn’t know why it bothered him so, her defiance and seemingly ardent desire to be tortured, killed. She was not the first mudblood he had seen dragged through those gates, the first one he had seen twitch into grotesque angles as sweat slicked her skin.

  


So why did he look away each night when she was dropped at the center of the Death Eaters? Her torment was routine now, the Dark Lord’s good-nature slipping into annoyance when she refused to lead him to Potter. He was growing more irate each day, a harrowing sign that she was oblivious to.

  


She would die within the coming days if she didn’t give in.

  


He stopped his pacing, closing his eyes as he inhaled slowly. He had to do it. There was no other choice.

  


He pulled his wand from his cloak, tossing it to the ground at her feet.

  


She looked to it, blinking in confusion. She raised her eyes to him, suspicious and unsure and surprised all at once. _Why?_

  


“Stupefy me. Hard. Make it good. If you head to the end of this corridor, there’s a hatch. It’s not available without a wand, you’ll need to tap the center tile right where the wall ends- can’t miss it if you know what to look for, there’s a worn notch in the stone from all the wands through the years. It will lead into the sewers, follow them north and you’ll eventually get to the backside of the house. The apparition point is about a quarter mile from there, and there will be guards at the gate. But he’s arrogant and keeps the worse of us outside- he doesn’t think anyone will get through his wards. In or out. If you can sneak up on them, you can stun them and get to the point,” he instructed, his words a low whisper.

  


Her eyes narrowed, distrustful of his gesture. He continued on, regardless. “You’ll have to run. Each step will trigger a warning in his wards. But he’s not here, so you might stand a chance. The best chance, really. But you’ll have a wand-” he pointed then, to the one that still sat at her feet- “and I know you know how to use it.”

  


She didn’t move for what felt like an eternity, her eyes gazing at his for any signs of insincerity. That it was a trap. A trick. Another, more inventive form of torture. When she saw none- he did his best to look pleading, the desperation he felt bleeding through his irises- she reached down to the wand, gently pulling it into her lap. She never broke eye contact, even as her fingers lightly danced across the length of the wand, caressing it as if recalling the feel of magic. Power.

  


“Why?” she asked, still crouched within the corner.

  


The question was laughable. That fact that she was asking a question instead of making her escape even more laughable.

  


He didn’t know why. He had been the one to capture her, disguised as a construction worker who followed her and the two wizards into the coffee shop. The one who twisted and attacked her when he saw the way her eyes narrowed in recognition. The one who threw her rumpled body to the ground before Voldemort.

  


Yet, here he was four weeks later, offering her his wand- _his wand!-_ and telling her how to escape the Manor that had held her captive.

  


He didn’t understand it anymore than she could. It was complex, the notions and thoughts that filled him when he thought of her and her routine torment. He admired her loyalty to Potter, her fearlessness (though reckless) when she spat at the Dark Lord’s face when he loomed over her panting form the first night. He admired the way He growled in frustration when she would not answer his questions- the witch apparently a well trained occlumens that would take her thoughts to the shallow grave she would soon find herself in.

  


He knew loyalty, had pledged it himself to the very man who held her captive. And they did not shift, immovable as her own. Which made his decision all the more confusing, this act of treason.

  


He was a traitor.

  


Though he did not feel like one, even as she cradled _his_ wand in her grimy hands. Even as she rose to her bare feet, the hem of her red dress clumped around her thighs, caked in filth. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, lank with sweat and dried blood.

  


She was beautiful, in a feral way.

  


“What will he do to you? When he finds out you helped me?” she asked solemnly, a tenderness to her voice that he had never heard before. It made him pause, enjoying the soft timber. She showed kindness, concern, when she had no reason to.

  


That, too, was admirable.

  


“I’ll be fine,” he lied.

  


She considered him for a moment, debating the possibilities. She chewed her lips, twirling the wand in her hands. “You can come with me-”

  


“You’re running out of time,” he said impatiently, ignoring the suggestion. It was a silly suggestion, one that was not worth considering.

  


He stepped back, giving her room.

  


She hesitated before lowering the point, pointing it at the bars that had been her cage for so long.

  


The explosion was loud, though hopefully not so loud to burst the silencing charm that Narcissa insisted placing on the cellar. Heat and magic swelled around Thorfinn as he was propelled back, crashing against the wall and falling to a heap at the floor.

  


He gasped sharply, ribs protesting the movement. Dust bloomed within the cellar, the bars crooked and bent, blasted away at the middle and forming tapered, splintered ends. She examined the damage first, careful to not cut herself as she stepped through them, holding the wand carefully between her breasts.

  


She turned to his crumpled form, an apologetic- though conflicted- look on her face. “Thank you,” she said, raising the wand once more.

  


The stunning charm hit him hard in his chest, flaring outward to his limbs and igniting his veins, his capillaries. It pulsed through him like jolts of lightning, agonizing and dizzying, his vision blurring through the pain and tears he unwillingly shed. His consciousness ebbed, his thoughts becoming unfocused and disorganized, spurred by the ache which blossomed like a rose in his chest and the feelings which warred within him.

  


Her silhouette was all he could discern, the red dress a beacon in the blurring shadows of the cellar, the palette of muted grays which bled together. It was retreating from him, the red becoming smaller and less distinct as she strode deeper into the shadows, freedom lying just before her.

  


It was soothing despite the pain which thrummed within him.

  


He did not understand it, but he smiled, even as the shadows engulfed him too and he fell into nothingness.


End file.
